


take me (i'll take you)

by bookstvnerdlove



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:06:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/bookstvnerdlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prostitute/client au</p><p>It begins slowly, a wild night and a pile of cash afterwards. Until it becomes more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me (i'll take you)

Beth scans the lipstick counter before choosing the brightest red from the selection of small black tubes. She doesn't own much paint, but she knows that he likes it. He's never said the words, but she can tell by the way his voice lowers an octave when she shows up, new lipstick on, hiding some racy lingerie beneath her schoolmarm clothes. He talks like that, she noticed early on, like they're living in some sort of Western, like he's some sort of gun-slinger and she's some sort of...well, something.

Tonight she's wearing her thigh-high boots, the one that he'd purchased for her on their first public outing. She'd stopped paying for his services the week before and they walked down the street, lined with shops. The boots had caught her eye and he had noticed. The next time that she'd knocked on the door to his apartment, he'd pulled her inside, quick and fast, and said gruffly, "Put these on and get into bed."

(He had her keep her dress on that night, as he thrust into her, the fabric sliding up her hips, her leather-clad legs wrapped around his. "Harder," he'd told her as the heel of her boots dug into his leg. They'd raced to orgasm, his hands gripping her arms and his hips circling tightly as he thrust harder, harder, harder until she burst.)

She slips a thin foil packet under the top of her boots, wedged just enough so that she knows that it won't fall down. It's strawberry flavored this time and she grins to herself as she thinks about exactly how she plans to ambush him as soon as she enters his apartment.

(She remembers the first time that she went to him, his services procured through one of Maggie's connections in the fashion world. "Oh, honey," one of the designers had told her, "He's worth every penny." She shuddered in mock-delight as she continued, telling the sisters about his arms and his tattoos, and the gruff way his voice would call you  _darlin'_  as he came.)

The first time that she met him at the hotel, she'd only had sex a few times with her college boyfriend Zach. It had been pleasant enough, she supposes, she even managed to come the second and third time, mostly due to her own directions, pleasure-points learned from hushed midnight explorations in her dorm room, testing and touching and circling until she turned her head into her pillow, muffling the gasps, trying not to wake her roommate.

She wanted to be taken, so she discretely collected a business card from the other designer, away from Maggie's watchful eyes. She waited for weeks to call, until she knew for sure that she would never get what she wanted, what she  _needed_ , from Zach. That first night she'd told him, "I want you to do whatever you want to me." She found herself pressed, face down on the bed, his hips pinning her into the mattress as one hair wound through her hair, pulling and tugging, and the other circled her clit while he slid into her slowly - in and out, maddening and glorious.

A month ago, in the hotel room, her body still slick with sweat, flushed and glowing, he'd told her that she might as well stop wasting her money on him. He'd said it, cruelly, and she'd lashed out at him, too. She told him he liked his job because it gave him an excuse to never connect with people, never let them in, never lose them - because you can't lose people you don't really have to begin with. She'd stormed out of the room and made it to the lobby before he'd caught up with her. 

"You're right," he'd said, hand grabbing her arm, spinning her to face him. Then he'd slid a small card into her hand and said, "Meet me here in a week if you're still interested."

She'd shown up at his apartment the next week and they hadn't had sex - for the first time in their peculiar relationship. The next week she'd come back and kept on coming.

Tonight, she slicks on her new red lipstick before she knocks on his door. As soon as she's inside, she pushed him back against it, shutting it closed with his body. Her hand is on his belt buckle and before he has a chance to say anything she's slid down his pants and has her hand on him, his cock hard for her already, his eyes bright. 

(This is his favorite thing, she's learned, the one thing that she can give him that his clients don't. It's all about them when they pay and most don't seem to want to give as much as receive. So she slides the condom on and wraps her red lips around him, taking in his quiet groans as she lips and sucks, her hands gripping his thighs, trapping him on the door, allowing him to thrust and fuck her mouth.)

He always takes care of her afterwards and she tries not to care about the pile of cash that she knows is locked in his desk drawers. Six months ago she hadn't even known him. Maybe in six more months, she'll be the only one who does. 


End file.
